Chloe playing with a friend on a sunny day.
“The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost.” ~Arthur Schopenhauer
“The earth laughs in flowers.” ~ee cummings
Because my father is dead:
I have a newfound intolerance for bullshit. I notice the weeds in our garden. I don’t read as much, but I study more. I loathe loathsome people more fervently.
I don’t sweep our hardwood floor enough. I now believe the dishes can wait. I take my dog to the beach and talk to strangers for hours, but I won’t call any dear friends. I pepper sentences with profanity.
I call my newly widowed mother and listen to her pain. I am writing a short story that involves about my ex-husband’s tiny penis (nods to Anne Lamott for her brilliant penis idea).
I listen to Moby.
I ache with the loss of his good nature and wonder where did it go? I weep often, but always alone. I don’t share this pain with anyone except a friend in Ohio. She’s a poet, so there you go.
I leave our bedroom a mess. I don’t fold laundry. I still can’t find a job, but I’m attending college, so I’ve evened the score. I long for a lemon tree. I stopped respecting one brother, but I can’t tell you which one in case lurkers lurk. If so, I’ll be sure to say, “You? You thought I meant you? No, not at all! Why would you think such a thing?” so obviously I haven’t lost my passive/aggressive edge.
That’s not bound to change.
There’s more but this is all I can stand for today.